Why I can't go this time
by Captain Howdy
Summary: Why Forrest Law isn't in Tekken 4.Changed, so read again, please Part of the Tangled Web series.


Disclaimer: Tekken, Forrest Law, and all other characters belong to Nameco, which is not me.  
  
I know they're wondering why I haven't come to this tournament. Julia, Yoshimitsu, maybe even Paul-they all told me that I had potential, I could be better than my father. But I can't call them. I can't face them. I don't want to.  
  
It all started after I came back from the third tournament with Paul. Marshall was angry at me to say the least. But I didn't care. I had done pretty well, for some one who's never been allowed to fight in any competition before. I had beaten Gun Jack and that weird disco guy Tiger, but I got my ass whipped by Yoshimitsu. Funnily enough, that's how we became friends. It turns out Yoshimitsu didn't like Marshall very much, and he thought I was Marshall!  
  
When Yoshimitsu found out who I was, he was really embarrassed.  
  
"The sins of the father should not reflect on the son," he told me afterwards. I heard him telling the exact same thing to this guy called Jin, who Paul said was Kazuya's son.  
  
It was weird because Kazuya was a bastard, according to Paul, and Jin was one hell of a nice guy.  
  
But I digress. When I got back, Marshall exploded. How could I cause him so much worry? Didn't I know how dangerous those tournaments were? After all he'd done for me?  
  
I took it, because, back then, I loved my father. I thought he could never do wrong.  
  
And I was stupid.  
  
The next couple of weeks were spent in the dojo; because Marshall was scared I would run of with Paul again. Paul and Marshall didn't talk to each other after that.  
  
But I had other things to worry about. Marshall set up his own chain of restaurants, which I knew was a bad idea. I didn't say anything though. Then again, I never did.  
  
Then, while I was getting some wine for Marshall, I bumped into Paul. His breath stank of beer. He grabbed me by the shoulders.  
  
"Forrest, you've got to get away from your old man," he said.  
  
"Why?" I asked.  
  
"Because his business will go down the drain in couple of months,"  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
Paul snorted.  
  
"You're a smart guy, Forrest, and we both know he's gonna lose that franchise war."  
  
"So?" I was starting to feel slightly uneasy.  
  
"Because when Marshall gets upset, loses out or anything else, he takes it out on the people around him. Trust me on this one."  
  
"Thanks," was all I said, and ran out the door, wine forgotten.  
  
Paul was right about Marshall losing the franchise war. He was also right about Marshall taking his anger out on the people around him. Weeks before he had to declare bankruptcy, I had started planning to move out. Marshall and I had discussed it briefly, but I bet he never thought I'd do it.  
  
I had finished packing my suitcase and was walking through the main dojo area when Marshall appeared in the doorway.  
  
"Not hanging around this dead end place, eh Son?" I knew that was a bad sign. Marshall only called me Son if he was angry or drunk.  
  
"We talked about this, father." My grip tightened on the suitcase.  
  
"Let's spar for old time's sake." It was a command, not a question. I sighed, dropped the suitcase and got into position.  
  
We fought for about half an hour. I had the upper hand, because I trained regularly.  
  
In the end, I won. Marshall just lay on the floor. I picked up my suitcase.  
  
"I'm going now, Father." I turned to leave.  
  
Then I felt a sudden burst of pain. Marshall had picked up a glass bottle and thrown it at me. I gasped and turned around. Marshall threw a second bottle, this time hitting my face. I was blinded. All I could see was red.  
  
"Bastard! You're no son of mine!" I heard Marshall scream.  
  
I stumbled out the door. Marshall continued throwing bottles at me. I have no idea what happened next, because I passed out.  
  
Three days later, I woke up in hospital, with sixteen stitches in my face, twenty-three on my neck and chest, forty on my back. Apparently a neighbor had found me lying unconscious and bleeding on the road. The left side of my face was a mess of scars. From that day forward I never called Marshall Father again. But then I never talked again either.  
  
I like the place I'm in now. It's quiet, and people don't bother me, except the nurses, and sometimes the psychiatrists. Some times I can hear people screaming, but it doesn't bother me any more. I just turn up my walkman and listen to music, as loudly as I can. I can train, too, but only in the presence of a nurse, in case I try to hurt myself again. But I don't think I will, any more. That bruising took ages to heal, and it hurt like hell. Sometimes, kind people try to talk to me. Sometimes I smile back. But I can't trust them. Not after what happened. So I'm keeping quiet. They'll never know what happened. Neither will Marshall, either. 


End file.
